I don't own the musketeers.

Under the well-worn leather hat his deep brown eyes almost appear black as he stares intently at the task at hand. Like a lion stares at an antelope before it pounces. Though where a lion means to kill he means to save. His nimble fingers dance along the blood covered skin sowing together what had been sliced apart. He shifted his body weight to the side to get a better look at his work. The small pointed objet in his hand made swift work as it in and out, marking where it had been. Finally he stepped back, letting out a long breath that he had been unknowingly held in as he assessed his work. He swept off dust covered blue cloak and lay on the shivering man in front of him. For now his work was done.